Swings

The feeling of swinging, hands on the iron chains, feet pumping beneath the seat, never leaves me.  I inherently know that forward motion, that movement back and up, that excitement just before your jump and then the exhilaration of letting go--the closest we'll ever be to knowing what a bird feels as it dips and floats--and then the landing, usually harder than expected but never hard enough to keep us from getting back on.

Lately, I can't jump off the swing of my personal life.  I want to find ground, to land and stand and feel steady, thrilled to have flown but even happier to be upright, walking, anticipating the next adventure.  I want all of that, but everything I knew of the ground is gone and all I can see below the glide is pile after pile of ashes.  Letting go now would mean an endless free fall and I am terrified of that senseless and solitary meander.

I don't want these chains, I don't want to keep resisting the urge to jump, and I don't want to be on this damn thing a year from now, but it is hard to take the leap of faith that leaving this behind would require.

So I stay on the swing.  Moving mechanically, slicing air with exhausted legs, hands raggedly gripping the chains, eyes dry and cracking from the bitter wind that slaps my face with every upward tick.  I miss the feeling of flight, the weightless moments of infinite possibility, but I am too afraid to face them today.

Maybe tomorrow will be different...but maybe not.